


Soft Spot

by PhenixFleur



Series: Soft Spot [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: All of it is fluff, Bill is an asshole, But he's considerably less of an asshole to Dipper, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hunter AU, Hunter Bill, Platonic Relationships, Seriously that's all that's here, fawn!Deerper, he's smol/canon-age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8268145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenixFleur/pseuds/PhenixFleur
Summary: Bill gradually becomes attached to the fluffy, four-legged ball of anxiety that he picked up (more like abducted, but semantics) out in the woods, which of course doesn't make him any less of a violent, murderous asshole - even if it does leave him with a Dipper-shaped soft spot. 
Fluffy off-shoot of Should've Run Faster, originally only posted on Tumblr.





	1. Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> This has been on Tumblr for ages; I'm not sure why I never posted it here. At any rate, hey look, another off-shoot of SRF! But a fluffy, platonic one with a somewhat less psychotic Hunter Bill. Somewhat. 
> 
> This is canon-age Dipper, so it's purely platonic/friendship; I know I tend to write shipping Billdip but not this one. This is just fluff with a hermit that used to be a demon that's now trapped in a dumb meatbag body bonding with the kid at least partially responsible for those two things. As a note, this goes with the version of the AU where Bill isn’t aware of who Dipper is upon finding him and may or may not be fully human/aware of who he used to be; I took the middleground with that. Also Bill isn’t very nice to him at first but he’s canonically a jerk half the time anyway so that’s to be expected. 
> 
> Did I mention it was fluff?

The timeworn human expression regarding spring showers might have been a bit of a tired cliche, but not unfounded. The tail end of April in Oregon brought its fair share of rain, ranging from the light drizzle that settled over the woods and unleashed the earthy odor of petrichor to torrential downpours that turned the soil to inhospitable mush and sent all the game in the area running for shelter (making hunting difficult for a couple of days) to outright electrical storms that rattled the windows of the cabin with every loud crack of thunder and sharp flash of lightning. The latter weren’t common, although they served merely as an inconvenience for the hunter occupying the rather immaculate log cabin deep in the woods a couple of miles away from the town limits of Gravity Falls they now paved the way for another kind of annoyance. 

The sound was muffled by the floorboards, but for someone with senses like Bill’s it remained distinct among the other ambient noises that accompanied a house settling. 

The damn kid was crying again. 

This wasn’t anything new _or_ unexpected. Over the past three weeks of the young cervitaur fawn he’d stumbled across wandering around in the woods unwillingly occupying his basement there had obviously been quite a bit of crying – once the inclination to outright rebel or attack him with hooves that were cute but actually packed a hefty punch passed. He didn’t want to physically harm the fawn too badly if only because he seemed pretty fragile and doing so would be a waste of time; threats, isolation, and withholding food and water were just as effective when the need arose. 

When it became apparent that he couldn’t fight his way out of the hunter’s possession the crying started. It was a definite reminder of the kid’s humanity, alongside the litany of pleas to be allowed to return to his family. Actual deer ran until cornered and fought until you shot them in the head. The kid’s primal instinct to do so had exhausted itself, leaving behind a worn out and terrified teenager cringing and cowering whenever Bill approached him.

The crying continued to the point where the sound finally stopped being hilarious and began to grate on his nerves. The frequency diminished somewhat after dragging the kid to the nearby lake and threatening to drown him in it if he didn’t _shut the fuck up_ and get used to his new home. The fawn tried his best, but late at night when he was locked away by himself in the dark Bill could hear him sobbing his little heart out. 

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was beginning to feel the slightest hint of guilt over treating the kid so badly. At first the negligence had come as punishment for trying to escape or being insolent, progressing to the same gleeful sense of power one obtained from cornering a rabbit and staring it down until the creature’s heart gave up and stopped altogether. Inspiring fear was slightly more fun than the actual kill itself, and the kid was definitely fun to scare the shit out of. 

For awhile. 

Earlier that night the fawn had been incredibly apprehensive; Bill suspected that the change in humidity forewarned him of the coming storm, leading him to beg to be allowed to sleep upstairs instead of being locked in the basement alone again as he always did with an incoming thunderstorm. The request went ignored as usual, although the rain had already begun to fall when he chained the brat to the wall and turned out the lights. 

Now, sprawled out on the sofa poring through the journal the kid had on him when the hunter took him down (an odd tome of supernatural and occult entries that seemed strangely familiar), he could hear the fawn in the basement, and the unbidden mental image of the kid curled up in a ball shivering with every thunderclap that roared overhead invaded his consciousness. The twinge of guilt reasserted itself, causing an unfamiliar clench in the pit of his stomach. 

The urge to storm down the stairs and tell the brat to can it or he’d chain him to a tree out in the rain came and went, and with every passing second the sensation intensified. 

Thus far he’d made a point of not using the kid’s name, although he knew it by now. Dipper. To the world outside of the woods the fawn had a name, but here, that name was filed away out of sight for the time being. The first mistake any hunter could make after foregoing killing a catch and deciding to keep it around for awhile was naming it. It made things personal, forged a connection between prey and predator that set both on equal planes of existence, and thus made it much harder to put a bullet in their skull when the novelty of pet ownership wore off or the situation called for another use. _Everyone_ had to eat. 

He knew he was making a pretty big mistake, then, when he made his way down into the basement, boots clumping upon the wooden stairs and announcing his presence (the kid had to have heard him but he was likely too far gone in his terror to silence himself). The kid - no, _Dipper -_ was huddled in the corner, whimpering. He clutched the blue and white baseball cap he now wore continually, as if it were a remaining token of his former home, and lay on his stomach sobbing piteously. 

Bill sighed, pressing a gloved palm to his face. Damn it.

Dipper noticed him then, chain clinking against the floor while he folded himself flush against the wall, biting his lip. The hunter regarded him carefully, mulling over the _big freaking mistake_ he was about to make. 

_Fuck it._

Dipper withdrew further as Bill leaned down to remove the chain fastened to his collar, then lifted the fawn into his arms. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched him, but for once the hunter actually felt the soft, fine fur brushing against his skin and acknowledged the warmth radiating from the shuddering body that was now tense, fearful brown eyes staring at him with pupils shrunken into mere pinpricks. The fawn’s teeth dug into his lip, suppressing what might have been either more tears or biting back a scream. 

“I’m not going to drop you, kid. Chill.” The words didn’t calm the fawn down any, but he did relax a bit, grabbing hold of Bill’s forearms and gingerly resting his head against his chest while the hunter headed back upstairs, surprised at how light he was. Maybe he really _was_ underfeeding him. The guilt flared up again, refusing to leave him be. 

The sound of the rain splattering against the glass was louder in the main room, and the lights were down to give the generator a rest. In lieu of artificial lighting a small heap of lumber blazed in the fireplace, providing a fair amount of illumination. Bill carried the fawn to the sofa silently, depositing him on the well-worm cushion and reaching for a nearby blanket. Dipper glanced up at him questioningly, clearly confused by the sudden change of heart. Bill didn’t have an answer for him. 

The fawn settled beneath the blanket as the hunter draped it over his trembling body, still unsure as to whether to leave him there or not. He knew Dipper was definitely unlikely to try to escape with the thunderstorm raging on outside, but it still didn’t feel _right_ leaving him there. Hell, none of this felt _right_ , given that he knew good and damn well that his moral compass was more of a corkscrew than anything else, but the unpleasant feeling lingered. A brief flash of electric blue lit up the room of a fraction of a second, and Dipper’s ears slicked back against his head. 

…yeah, fuck it.

Bill lowered himself onto the sofa beside the fawn, looking over at him in a manner that he _hoped_ was inviting and patting his lap somewhat awkwardly. He wasn’t exactly sure how to make his face do the whole comforting expression thing, and the sharp teeth that accompanied his smile probably didn’t help any. Dipper watched him warily, torn between keeping his distance and accepting the much welcome affection and human contact after a couple of weeks without it for the most part. 

Nature decided to step in, then; a particularly loud thunderclap boomed from directly above the cabin, shaking the thankfully sturdy structure and sending the kid – _Dipper_ , _his name is Dipper_ – hurtling across the sofa into his arms again. The tears were rolling once more, and for once the hunter let him cry it out without interruption or growing irritated, removing the cap with the pine tree printed on it (that wasn’t a bad nickname, really) so he could run his fingers through his hair soothingly, occasionally stroking the delicate ears that finally relaxed beneath his touch. He didn’t say anything, because he couldn’t think of anything _to_ say, and the weather provided enough auditory accompaniment that words weren’t necessary anyway. The fawn grew calmer and less tense, and eventually the tears dampening Bill’s trousers came to a halt as he grew heavier in his lap, drifting off to sleep. 

This was definitely a mistake, but with the fawn lightly snoring in his lap, cheek pressed against his stomach and his face still glistening in the firelight Bill decided he didn’t care. 

That seemed to be the theme for the night, anyway. 

He wiped the tears from Dipper’s cheeks and repositioned the blanket, careful not to disturb him, then resumed petting the slumbering fawn and listening to the thunder roll until he nodded off as well.


	2. Empathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These were initially posted as individual drabbles, so if it seems like the transitions between chapters are a little odd, there you go. Sorry if that's jarring!

Bill’s suspicions that he’d made a mistake during the most recent thunderstorm weren’t unfounded, and that became more and more apparent as the days drifted by.

He’d awakened to sunlight streaming through the windows, the lumber in the fireplace nothing but a pile of ash, and a slumbering cervitaur fawn sprawled out in his lap. It had taken more effort than he was comfortable with to convince himself to wake the kid up, and even then instead of roughly shoving him aside as he would have weeks before he’d opted to lightly shake the fawn’s shoulder until his eyes slid open.

Of course everything had gone to hell then, with Dipper suddenly realizing where he was, panicking and falling off the sofa in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and the hunter as possible, which in turn pissed _Bill_ off, resulting in him tossing the kid back in the basement for the rest of the day and fuming over his lack of gratitude for a few hours.

The logical fallacy in this wasn’t lost on him, but Bill pointedly ignored the guilt needling away at his psyche.

It lasted for a full twelve hours before driving him down into the basement to retrieve the fawn, carrying him back upstairs and depositing him in a makeshift nest of blankets and pillows on the living room floor with no further explanation. The moment had proven rather confusing, predator carefully regarding prey uncertainly while Dipper stared back at him with those terror-stricken brown eyes reminiscent of proverbial deer in the headlights.

In the end, he allowed the kid to stay. Bill still didn’t trust him not to make a run for it if left unattended, even with the threat of being drowned in the lake hanging over his head, so he made sure to cart up the chain and the padlock from the basement and, through a couple of hours of manuevering, managed to rig them up while still allowing the fawn to move around a fair bit.

Three days later he left the kid’s journal lying next to him to find when he woke up, seating himself across the room to observe the discovery and suppressing a smile when the fawn actually cried out in joy, wrapping his arms around the object as if it were an old friend.

_Fuck_. He was going _unfathomably_ soft. The realization sent him out into the woods with his rifle, not actually hunting but filled with the burning need to shoot _something_ because apparently the kid was off the table in every sense of the word. There was a difference between actually hunting and blowing off some homicidal steam, and he passed a few refreshing hours doing the latter.

It still didn’t prevent the smile that came unbidden when he picked his way through the darkened woods well after sunset and entered the cabin to find Dipper curled up in his nest of blankets having dozed off while reading that journal.

It didn’t occur to him that the cat withdrawing its claws wasn’t necessarily reassuring for the mouse cowering before it.

As before, the fawn remained terrified. His intelligent diction and talent for sarcasm had faded to silence after the first two weeks; the hunter suspected that those traits still lingered under the surface, but the kid was too thoroughly scared shitless to let any part of his personality shine through. In that manner he really did resemble a full-fledged white tail, constantly on the alert and teetering on the edge of fleeing by a hairline trigger.

How did one go about taming something (or someone) when their go-to method involved just capping an unruly or stubborn creature and mounting their head on the wall?

An opportunity presented itself one morning while rummaging around for something to give the kid something for breakfast. It was a good thing that the fawn wasn’t a true herbivore, given that Bill sure as hell wasn’t. Dipper could eat pretty much anything the hunter had to offer, but of course he gravitated towards fruit and vegetables more often than the variety of meat that Bill brought home, when he bothered eating much at all. The hunter suspected that there were things Dipper was partial to that might be more appealing and actually entice him to eat regularly. 

Thus he continued his descent into both madness and _being a sap_ , regarding the Dipper carefully with his good eye as the fawn picked away at a peanut butter (no jam inclusive) sandwich, keeping his gaze fixed on the table. “Hey kid, is there something you like?”

Dipper froze, sandwich forgotten entirely. He didn’t look up, voice barely audible when he responded. “This is okay.”

Bill resisted the urge to either bury his face in his hands or yell at him. Thankfully it passed rather quickly. “I meant something you actually like to eat.”

His interest seemed to confuse Dipper, who made eye contact for a few seconds before averting his gaze once more. “This is fine. Really.”

Bill sighed. “You’re skinny as fuck, kid.”

Dipper processed this comment for all of five seconds before coming to the wrong conclusion. His ears slicked back flush again his scalp, his eyes widened, and he dived under the table.

“Oh for…” Bill groaned, briefly regretting deciding to keep the kid. This wasn’t worth it. He dropped to his knees, edging beneath the table with the frightened cervitaur. Dipper clung to one of the weathered wooden legs like a lifeline. “Look. I’m not going to hurt you. If I wanted to eat you or something I’d have done it already. So stop freaking out.”

He reached out, hesitantly (what the fuck was _that_ all about?), and ran a leather clad finger over one of the fawn’s ears. Even with gloves on he could tell how soft the fine coating of fur beneath his fingertips was. Dipper flinched, gripping the table leg even more tightly. “Kid.” _That’s not his name._ “ _Dipper_.”

The occurrence marked the first time he’d spoken the kid’s name out loud, and it took both of them by surprise. The hunter paused, hand still poised over the fawn’s head, and the fawn slowly met his gaze. The tableau held for a moment before Bill recovered, resuming petting his ears. “Chill. It’s okay.”

It most certainly was _not_ okay, but Bill considered himself a jack-of-all-trades and chronic liar was a skill that had come to serve him well, even when _he_ was the one deluding himself.

Dipper began to relax. After several minutes of silence, his voice rose, carrying a hint of something other than fear as he said, faintly, “You wouldn’t want to eat me, anyway. I’m skinny as fuck, remember?”

Bill laughed, a genuine one not laced with instability or malice. “Then what do you want?”

This time a few minutes passed altogether (with the two of them sitting under the kitchen table) before Dipper spoke up again. “…do you know how to make pancakes?”

A hour, a small fire, and a hearty round of profanity later, Bill sat a plate of partially burnt pancakes drenched in maple syrup in front of the fawn, who proceeded to devour them, blackened bits and all.

And for the first time in weeks, Dipper actually smiled.


	3. Happy

Three weeks, twenty-one days.

It was a silly old platitude that Bill had encountered at some point: the notion that it took three weeks (twenty-one days) to establish or break a habit. Whether this unlikely statement was actually true or not, it took about the same amount of time to become completely attached to what gradually shifted from acquisition to companion. 

Keeping the fawn around instead of killing him hadn’t been something he actually thought through before doing it. Sometimes it was a great deal of fun to just dispense with the process of planning and simply do things on a whim. There wasn’t really a  _plan_  for what to do with Dipper aside from scaring him for shits and giggles. Some people denied or made attempts to shield their true nature, but Bill fully accepted and embraced that he was both a monster  _and_  a maniac in equal parts with sadistic tendencies tacked on for good measure. It was a hell of a lot more fun to lie to other people than to yourself – for him, anyway. 

There were times when he wondered whether his humanity itself was a shield for something much darker and chaotic than just a guy who got his proverbial rocks off preying on small, furry, and adorable creatures out in the woods. 

So yeah, the kid was unplanned and as it turned out, Bill didn’t know shit about pet ownership (and taking care of anything or one, really) anyway. 

He wasn’t expecting to find himself cooking actual food on a regular basis, playing the part of security blanket during thunderstorms and nightmares, and coming to genuinely enjoy the fawn’s company. 

It took a full week of coaxing before Dipper began to accept his efforts as more than just a particularly cruel trick to get him to let his guard down. 

It also took a nightmare.

A few days after making a list of hesitantly offered food preferences and rustling up two or three other items (alongside everything else, it hadn’t occurred to Bill that the kid needed something to occupy himself with, so handing over a notebook, a couple of pens, and a few old, dusty books with strange titles discovered in the basement wasn’t a difficult request to honor), the hunter awakened to the piercing sound of someone screaming from downstairs. After a few seconds of confused irritation it clicked that Dipper was downstairs, and then he was off, rolling out of bed and grabbing one of handful of guns that he just happened to have in his bedroom and stumbling down the stairs ready to blow some intruder menacing  _his_  fawn away. 

There was no broken glass and the room appeared undisturbed save for the cervitaur thrashing wildly in his makeshift bed, alternately shrieking and whimpering in his sleep. 

The exasperation over the false alarm was but a flash in the pan; Bill dropped the weapon on the sofa and rushed over to Dipper, kneeling next to him while trying to avoid a hoof in the face and grabbing hold of his shoulders. “Dipper.Kid. Wake up _, damn it._ ”

Even unconscious, the fawn resisted, twisting out of his grip and backing against the wall. His eyes flew open, unfocused and unseeing. “No. No no no,  _go away._ " 

"Wake up, dumbass!” Bill snapped, reaching for the terror-stricken fawn and seizing him by the collar. Dipper tried to pull away again, frantically scratching at his arms (and the hooves remained a constant threat; Bill was glad the kid’s antlers were still underdeveloped nubs). 

“I want to go  _home_.”

Well just  _shit._ The star of the kid’s nightmare was  _him_.

Bill paused, unsure of how (or whether) to proceed. The unfamiliar feeling souring his stomach wasn’t guilt; he knew that much. He didn’t experience guilt very often. Nor was it regret. If he were to return to several weeks earlier and encounter across the fawn in the woods alone again he wouldn’t hesitate to nab him, just as before. The only thing he would do differently was perhaps being kinder to him somewhat earlier. Perhaps it was concern? 

Maybe that was it. Concern.

With a heavy sigh he dragged the kid towards him, pulling him into a tight embrace. He’d never hugged the fawn before. He didn’t really do hugs in general, so this was both unprecedented  _and_  awkward. Dipper continued struggling, still half-asleep; after a couple of minutes he regained full consciousness, initially flinching at the hunter’s presence before going limp in his arms. Bill held him closer, muttering a stream of comforting words mixed with a fair amount of softly delivered and well-intentioned expletives into his hair. “It’s okay, kid. It’s just a fucking nightmare. You’re safe.”

Dipper’s voice was shaky, probably indistinct to someone with senses that weren’t nearly as acute as Bill’s. “Am I?”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t a lie. 

“Can I go home?”

“No.” That wasn’t a lie, either.

Instead of pushing him away, Dipper returned the embrace, resting his head against the hunter’s chest. “Okay.”

He fell silent, and neither of them spoke until the moonlight streaming through the window gave way to the first rays of dawn, upon which Dipper returned to his nest of blankets and Bill moved to the sofa, falling asleep shortly after the fawn dozed off.

The nightmare, and the exchange following it, served as a turning point.

Whether through resignation or adaptation Dipper grew a bit more comfortable being around him. He still didn’t care for the collar or being chained up at night; he made  _that_ obvious, but he dealt with it, as he did the other aspects of his new home that disturbed him for whatever reason. Not without a touch of commentary, but the kid was pretty amusing, and while he reacted to Bill pointing it out with teenage frustration he was adorable when startled or pissed off. 

He began to talk more in general, asking questions or making suggestions for things. He shifted his handful of belongings around in his corner and personalized it, to an extent. Once Bill caught him humming to himself, something that sounded like a pop song. Dipper stopped immediately after being discovered and hid in the bathroom for about an hour afterwards. 

In turn Bill gave him more freedom, letting him roam about the cabin during the day. He wasn’t allowed outside alone yet, so the fawn grudgingly consented to the leash Bill came up with in exchange for fresh air and the chance to bask in the sunshine. During those times, with Bill seated on the porch and Dipper sprawled out in the grass, small chest rising as he inhaled the smell of aging trees, damp wood after the rain, and late spring flowers unfurling, a sense of lightness settled over the hunter, bringing a gentle smile to his face that would have horrified him were he completely aware of it. Subconsciously, he understood that this was a different kind of happiness than what he was used to. It was uncomfortable to acknowledge it, so he didn’t.

But he continued making pancakes, and, with Dipper’s help, learned to make a few more dishes that weren’t just meat. He dug up a few more books, and had a lengthy conversation with Dipper about the weird journal he carried around. During the next early summer thunderstorm he slept on the sofa, keeping Dipper company until the wind died and the storm petered out. The fawn helped him patch himself up after a trip out into the woods ended up in an encounter with a mountain lion that didn’t understand who he was fucking with but managed to get in a few swipes anyway. That was a head that _did_  end up on the wall, because that’s what happened when someone started shit with Bill Cipher. 

Dipper’s only response to that statement was a mildly disturbed “Man, that’s not healthy” before resuming dabbing away at claw marks with a rag soaked in alcohol.

The hunter and the fawn co-existed on terms that eventually shifted from neutrality to relatively peaceful.

And Bill was happy. 


	4. Emotions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone wants to misinterpret the last line: still no romantic shipping - a platonic relationship can be just as intense and loving as any other relationship minus romantic elements, and I really don’t think that’s explored enough anywhere, really.
> 
> Also I accidentally character development for Bill. Oops.

The foreign type of happiness that the fawn’s presence brought him came with a price, as did all things. 

That price just happened to be the acknowledgment and gradual acceptance of an entire slew of emotions, some of which greatly conflicted with each other, and _some_ of which were more than a bit surprising, to say the least. 

As the weeks drifted past, Bill became steadily aware of a new level of possessiveness that was just a _little_ more intense than anything he’d ever experienced. It was all well and good to have _things_ ; guns and teeth and animal bits were pretty satisfying to own (especially the former), but he didn’t have to worry about weapons deciding to jump ship and walking off without his permission. 

The fawn was different. Despite Dipper’s relatively calm demeanor and return to a semblance of his former vibrancy the hunter still didn’t trust him to run away if given the chance. He knew good and damn well that the kid hadn’t put his former home and family behind him, and the allure of returning to them remained. This couldn’t happen, because Dipper was _his_ fawn, from the small nubs that would become majestic antlers one day to the fluffy tail that shot up in alarm on a regular basis. The smile that wavered between innocence and cynicism, the amusing commentary and intelligent shine in his eyes - all of that was _his_ , and Bill was ready to do whatever it took to keep it. It was why he insisted on continuing to chain him up at night, and even contemplated tagging him so he’d be easier to track if he did slip out of the lodge and make a run for it. 

He _tried_ to keep it under wraps, knowing it would definitely unnerve Dipper, but sometimes the urge to remind him who he belonged to became overwhelming and he unclipped the chain, dragging him onto the sofa next to him with no regard for any protests and held him there, stroking his ears until the fawn’s apprehension faded and he fell asleep at his side. 

The possessiveness clashed with the desire to keep Dipper happy, or at least as happy as he could be given the circumstances. Whatever he asked for (within reason) Bill handed over; if he wanted a particular kind of food the hunter either attained it through various means or tried to actually cook it - which lead to a few triumphs and more than a few abject failures that the fawn struggled through for his benefit. If he appeared to be lonely or anxious at night Bill slept on the sofa to keep him company, and from time to time he fell asleep with the fawn curled up halfway in his lap the way he had weeks before during the thunderstorm that lead to him sleeping upstairs. 

From time to time the kid cried when recalling something from his former life, and Bill held him while he did so, softly reassuring him that he wasn’t missing anything, really, and he could be just as happy where he was, he’d make sure of it. He genuinely enjoyed seeing the fawn smile, even if occasionally inconvenienced him. 

And sometimes he felt the incomprehensible urge to wipe that smile off his face. 

It was the same dark haze that settled over him and sent him traipsing out into the woods to corner whatever he could and tormenting it for awhile before putting a bullet in its head. At random moments a similar surge of aggression rose within his chest, looking at the sleeping fawn’s peaceful expression or watching him poring over that journal intently, pushing him to _hurt_ the kid; to make good on his threat to skin the fawn the day he’d captured him, loop the chain around his fragile neck and constrict until he couldn’t breathe, staring up at the hunter with an enticing mixture of fear and betrayal.

During those moments there were traces of memories that were thin, spidery threads that threatened to snap if pulled too tightly; flames the hue of lightning arcing across the sky, laughter and screaming and things _burning_ , columns of smoke curling towards the sky from a thousand blazing pine trees, and a child tethered to him, empty yellow eyes graced with pupils elongated into slits. A blue and white cap tilting to the side with a familiar symbol printed on it that he could just make out if he stretched just a little further. 

Once his clarity returned he couldn’t recall most of it, save for the feverish desire to hear _something_ scream in agony, writhing in his grip until the light faded from its eyes and it lay lifeless and inert. The urges didn’t arise too often, but once he found himself gripping the knife at his side, leering at the slumbering fawn at his side, envisioning himself knocking the cap off his head ( _blue and white cap, burning pine trees_ ), seizing a handful of his hair and sliding the blade over his cheekbone, one perfectly straight line after the other, forming…a triangle?

The realization of what he’d almost done forced the hunter upright, barely checking to make sure the padlock was in place before heading to his room to stare at the ceiling in a state of simmering consternation for an hour or so before slipping out in the woods to track down larger game to take his frustrations out on. 

That morning he’d returned covered in oozing claw marks and splashed liberally with  deep crimson, sending Dipper leaping over the arm of the sofa with an all too deer-like bleat to hide in his pile of blankets and pillows in the corner. Bill ignored his reaction, making his way over to where the fawn cowered and digging him out of his makeshift nest, embracing him tightly until both he and the fawn stopped trembling and Dipper hesitantly returned the hug, willfully disregarding the blood seeping into his shirt and staining his fur. The whole thing was confusing and unpleasant and led to another emotion that he wasn’t used to. Sadness? Sorrow? Sorrow sounded a little better. A little less _pathetic_.

That was the one thing he would _not_  allow himself to feel. Predators lurked at the top of the food chain for a _reason_.

There were other wayward emotions, of course - brief flashes of irritation when the fawn broke something or talked back a little too insolently for his liking (which did happen on rare occasions). Amusement when the kid failed at being a deer and stumbled over his own legs or puffed up at being referred to as adorable, something akin to awe at his intelligence and dedication to paranormal oddities (despite being one himself). And, on the days when he let Dipper get some fresh air out on the lawn, rolling around in the grass and stretching his legs gleefully while the hunter monitored him from the porch; the evenings when they watched the sun dip below the horizon while the fawn relayed stories of some of the things he’d seen out in the woods; the swell of gratitude in his chest while Dipper patched him up after another reckless tirade in the woods…

At those times, he felt an acute sense of fondness that he eventually realized was love. 


End file.
